


But I Came to Love You, In a Way

by mcmotzkin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Consequences, Cooperation, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Nightmares, Nudity, Support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3955372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcmotzkin/pseuds/mcmotzkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his resurrection, Peter finds Lydia in his nightmares, where she definitely shouldn't be. It's not friendship, <i>per se</i>, but it works for them.</p>
<p>*Title from 'The Black Keys - Lonely Boy'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. where Lydia just can't get a break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted a friendship between Peter and Lydia and no one gave it to me. So I sent a prompt, and got this [fic](http://doesitlooklikeiwantedtoknowthat.tumblr.com/post/118497528457/i-really-need-in-my-life-lydia-peter-bffs-like), which was awesome, but while I waited for it, I kind of wrote my own. I'm not entirely comfortable with this, but there ya go.
> 
> *The nudity is brief and non-sexual.

_“I don't hate my adversaries – we are simply on different sides.  
Those I hate, I kill.”_

* * *

Peter is dreaming. He knows he’s dreaming, because half of his face is numb, and _he doesn’t have scars anymore he doesn’t have scars anymore he doesn’t_

He closes his eyes and wishes to wake up, but when he opens them he’s on fire. Laura is watching from a safe distance. He’s not entirely sure it’s not real. He _remembers_ it, it’s happened before, so why can’t it happen again? – And it _hurts_. Hurts. Hurts. Hurts, until dirt hits his face, his raw skin, he can smell it. He should have died from smoke inhalation or shock and instead his nerves are flaring where the damp earth hits him, smothering the fire.

He is on his back and the dirt keeps coming, heavy on his legs and if he squints hard enough through gritty lids he can see the outline of his nephew’s shoulders as they shovel shovel shovel. To his right is a wall of a burnt building, to his left is a half-buried Lydia Martin. Her hair is a mess and her eyes are panicked, he wants to tell her to breathe while she can, deep breaths, but his own mouth is already covered, seeping into his eyes, worms wiggling their way on his face – he can’t move, he can’t breathe – he wakes up.

-

In the morning Peter waits for the girl to arrive, on the outskirts of the parking lot of the school. It’s like he’s in college again, dropping by on his nephew to embarrass and tease him, god, he was such a child.

Miss Martin steps out of her car with only minutes to spare until class starts, looking as fresh as a daisy with no care in the world. Of course, Peter knows about the power of make-up, so he’s not convinced. He has to be right; there is no way that this was a coincidence, there’s no way he just dreamt her, no, she was _there_.

During the first period she doesn’t as much as yawn.

He leaves.

-

Lydia is burning, and it doesn’t stop.

-

After the second night she wakes up screaming, Jackson tells her he can’t stay for the night. He didn’t for a while there, when she was losing her mind and he was a homicidal lizard, but he stayed with her after that awful night that she mostly has trouble remembering, so she thought things might start aligning again. Silly girl.

He has a lot to work through, and she wakes him up and _I’m sorry, I can’t listen to this, I’m sorry_.

Lydia wakes up, pats herself down for injuries, curls up in a ball and tries her best to become numb.

- 

Peter opens his eyes to bright lights and green grass and a mouthful of blood. His ears ring from the girl’s scream and he feel triumph. He was right. Taking her head in clawed hands, he wrings her neck.

He wakes up.

-

Lydia designated a small notebook to dreamkeeping. It goes a little like this:

 

> 1\. buried alive next to peter. I suffocate.
> 
> 2\. burning
> 
> 3\. burning / prom, peter.
> 
> 4\. buried alive. peter holds my hand. I know it’s a dream. / burning

-

On night #4 she opens her eyes to a dark room and a weight on her torso and she can’t move. She doesn’t know how she got here, but she knows the place. She’s been here. Turning her neck to the right she sees another figure, as buried as she is and it’s not fair that they should die here. She wants to call him, she wants to hear something before she dies, her name, his name, anything, anything, it’s too quiet, but her lips won’t open and the man is breathing heavily, afraid, just like her, afraid. Please.

A heap of dirt lands on the man’s face and he turns towards her, shaking his head, and it’s Peter. For a moment they just stare at each other, mute, until Lydia can almost see him pull himself together and rasp-

“Lydia. It’s a dream. It’s my dream. It not real.”

He makes an effort to move an arm, and takes her hand in his and the dirt keeps coming. It’s a dream.

 

Then she burns.

-

Lydia opens her eyes to the sight of trees. She’s cold and shivering, it’s dark, and the soles of her feet hurt from whatever she is standing on. She doesn’t know how she got here.

Wind raises goosebumps on her arms. The night is full of little noises, movements just beyond her hearing, voices, rustling of leaves. She whips her head to a snapping sound and almost falls, coming head to head with Peter, who is very deliberately looking at her face. He is incredibly naked.

Oh. It’s that kind of night. No wonder she’s cold. Wait, Peter?

“No. Not you. This is bad, very, very bad.” Her heart is suddenly pounding. This is worse than being buried alive. This is worse than burning. Oh, god.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know if it’s real.”

“We only ever meet in dreams these days. A shame, that. I miss our little chats.”

“Stop. Shut up. Shut the fuck up, Peter. You did this to me, I was here before, this had happened. What makes you think it can’t happen again? What makes you think I can’t drag you here with me, using that.. that link we have to each other?” Breathe. In. Out. Breathe. In. Out.

“Hm. I suppose you could have, unknowingly.” She starts to hyperventilate.

“How do we know? How will we ever know from now on? Everything feels real and if we wake up in our beds out of the blue, it could still have happened. It happened before.”

Her mind is working itself into a frenzy, because she’s losing hold of reality again and she can’t take it, she can’t, it was supposed to be over, she did her part, get out.

A hand gently slips into her own and a soft voice says,

“Lydia Martin, get a hold of yourself. Breathe. We will go and we will verify. There are tricks to recognizing dreams, we can do this. Come on, now. These woods are closer to your home, lead the way.”

She opens her eyes, not having noticed when she shut them, squeezes the man’s hand and gets the fuck going.

Their feet are dirty and bloody by the time they reach her house. She prays it’s a dream, and they’ll be able to know it, but she’s very much afraid that it’s not. The walk up to her room seems to take forever.

Peter walks up to her bookcase and picks open a title. He smiles and brings it to where she’s frightfully locked in place by the side of her bed. The words inside wiggle like ants, and those that don’t, seem to be making very little sense.

“Texts in dreams are not illegible.” She sinks to the carpet, back pressed to the bed, elbows resting on her spread knees, unconcerned by her state of undress; boneless.

“Wasn’t there something about counting your fingers?” The words are quiet from where she bent her head to rest on her hands. A cage for a wildly beating heart. It’s a dream.

“So now she remembers she’s the brightest girl in school.” Peter carefully sits next to her, knees brushing, shoulders pressed together, seeping heat. He feels so real. It’s a dream.

“Jeez, so sorry for panicking.”

“You’re forgiven. But only because it’s a very nice rug.” She laughs a little at that and finally unfolds her head back to rest on the bed covers, pushing her messy hair back, taking a deep breath. She turns to look at the older man,

“Have you seen the movie _Inception_?”

“No.”

“Watch it.”

Peter nods once, and they keep sitting, unmoving on her dream bedroom floor for what feels like hours, but is probably milliseconds. Then they burn.

-

Jackson hugs her in the hallways and won’t say anything about anything important and doesn’t stay the night. Stiles is alone and bruised and quiet. She puts her best face on.

-

Peter opens his eyes to bright lights and green grass and a mouthful of blood. He knows this one.

“Lydia. It’s a dream.” His hands are braced on the sides of her head and he patiently waits for the girl to register his words and open her eyes. She does, and he feels a bit of pride creeping in – she’s fast.

“Peter.”

“It has to be one of yours.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“For one – I don’t remember this in such vivid detail. I was quite out of it at the time.”

“And?..”

“It’s honestly not something I would consider a nightmare.”

They breathe in a matching rhythm.

“I’m going to need you to get off me, now.” Her words are muffled by the way her hands are cupped over her face.

“Hm.”

They move to sit with their backs to the light. Lydia’s dress is bloody and ruffled. Peter’s hair falls on his forehead and half his face is numb. Huh. That should have been the first thing he noticed.

“So how does this work?” He asks, “Do we just check ourselves each time we find each other occupying the same airspace?” He is running his hand over the scars.

“Pretty much, yes.” She sounds tired. They keep sitting.

“Well?”

Peter averts his eyes when the girl starts moving her hands over her body, not so much of any sense of modesty, but more in order to be very sure he doesn’t accidentally notice whatever it is she chose as her “totem” ( _he had loved the movie, and she really is brilliant. he might even tell her that_.) and spoil the system they’re trying to work out.

“Check” She says in an awkward kind of way, like she’s not quite sure it’s the appropriate word, “You?”

“Negative.” He's smirking a little at the terminology.

“We're in my dream then.” She sighs in relief, “I, uh, I chose something on my body, so that when we find ourselves in the woods again, we won’t rely on some object we won’t have. I suggest you do the same.”

“Already have.”

“Good.”

“Hm.”

They burn.

-

She opens her eyes to a dark room and a weight on her torso and she can’t move. She panics. How did she get here? Where is even _here_? Everything smells damp and it’s cold; the weight on her body gets heavier. She whimpers. It’s getting harder to lift her chest, expand her lungs, keep the tears inside.

Dirt is flying in her face and she turns her head to avoid it getting in her eyes, her nose. There is someone to her right. A man. She can see his muscles straining to move, he is black with soot and cracking skin.

She knows him.

“Peter!” She’s shouting, but it comes out as a wheeze from her raw throat, “Peter! Totem!”

His eyes snap open and he wiggles frantically under the mountain of dirt that keeps coming, a shovelful for him, a shovelful for her. Lydia flexes her left hand that’s trapped on her stomach and does her best to reach her left inner thigh, where she memorized a small bit of skin that she imagined herself cutting off more times than she could care to count. It’s not there. She lets out “Negative!” and hopes he hears.

“Check!” And his voice sound like his throat has been scraped with sandpaper but it’s a dream. It’s his goddamn dream. They suffocate.

-

Lydia wakes up gulping for air and Jackson didn’t stay the night. It’s been a while since she suffocated last thing before the real world, although it feels like they’ve been doing it for ages. She thinks she prefers it to burning. With a loud pounding heart she lays back down and does her best to _not be_. She’s getting very good at that.

She is forced back into being by a small rock hitting the window of her bedroom. It’s not as big a surprise as it probably should be to see Peter Hale at the bottom of the window, in trainers and a tank-top, like some overgrown 90’s movie protagonist. Dream logic. She goes downstairs and opens the door and lets him in and up, and down on the office chair by the foot of the bed and says, “Totem.”

She curls back into bed and closes her eyes as he reaches a hand under the cotton to touch his – side? ribs? – she doesn’t want to know, honestly, for their mutual piece of mind, “Check.”

A quick hand between her thighs and, “Check.” – They’re awake.

The man gets up from the chair, slowly, carefully, telegraphing his intentions – sets a knee on the bed, watches her. She doesn’t say a thing. Just a few minutes ago she was _not being_ , and it’s a hard transition to make back to _teenage girl_ and _top student_ and _fine_. Peter gets under the covers, sighs, and draws her close to his chest, hands circling frail shoulders, breathing into her hair. Her nose ends up in his collarbone, and everything grows hot where they meet; she brings a hand up to his chest.

“I don’t think I told you how sorry I am. That I had to do this. That it was you.” Lydia can feel the vibrations of this throat when he speaks, and something very prickly builds inside the confines of her body, something warm like fever and she does her best not to cry. He takes a deep breath against her hand, -“The bite, not the possession. I wasn’t myself then, I was mad, I was fire, I don’t even remember it though it must have been me but it feels so distant, like being seventeen or feeling joy. I’m sorry, look where it brought us, look what I did; our link, your boyfriend, everything.” A breath, - “And I’m so fucking sorry for everything I put you through. That was me, no excuse. I was in the ground but I _had_ you. You are magnificent, you are brilliant, you brought me back. And I’d do it again, I’m sorry, I would do it again because I’m here and I’m breathing and I have my mind. I am weak, and we’re linked still, but I’m alive. And so are you. I’m sorry.”

Peter is breathing heavily, and she feels light, like she might fly away from the huffs of his breath. There it was. She didn’t know how much she needed to hear something like this until it was said to her, frantically, secretly, in the dark. He acknowledged her. He apologized. She hated his guts. She really, really wanted to cry now.

“Were you channeling Stiles just now?” She tries deflecting, and he blurts out laughing, untangling a hand from her frame. She takes the opportunity to discreetly wipe her eyes, “I’m not sure if I can forgive you. Not yet. But I can give it a shot if you tell me everything that’s been going on around here.”

“What do you already know?”

“Only the things I saw myself, but it’s not like it makes a whole lot of sense.”

“Have you asked anyone else?”

“Everyone’s inside their own bubble of misery. They only talk among the ones who are in the know”

“Ah, teenage boys. Aren’t they delightful?” He rolls his eyes, “I’ll tell you everything I know in the morning. We should sleep now. Emotions are exhausting, let’s not do it again, okay?”

“Yeah.” The man rests his hand between their bodies and closes his eyes, “Over breakfast” He promises. They sleep. They don’t dream.

 

Lydia’s parents are gone by the time they make their way to the kitchen, and over a nice hot cup of coffee, Peter tells her everything.

She needs to move at least three states away from here, and fast.

-

Peter waits for the girl to finish her morning routine, because apparently they’re having breakfast in a diner that wasn’t there the last time he cared at all about eating. At first he attempted to locate the refrigerator in search for eggs to fry, and it’s honestly not as easy as it sounds in a sleek chrome kitchen, but Lydia scoffed in derision and said, “ _How about we don’t go remotely near fire ever again, hm?_ ” – So they’re going out.

His mind wonders to dark territories – What now? Will he ever be as strong as he was before his death? Will he even be _able_ to kill an Alpha?, Because, god, he needs to, he really needs to. And what about his nephew and his little Scooby gang? – Circles upon circles of repetitive thoughts, each gaining weight from the other, building up to a-

-plate full of food put in front of him. He snaps out of it. They apparently arrived and ordered and  Lydia is watching. A distraction, then- “So what are you planning to do?”

“Stay as uninvolved as possible. Survive and get the hell away.”

“Your best friend is a hunter, your boyfriend is a killer, and you occasionally share dreams with an undead werewolf. Explain to me how this plan of yours can possibly work?”

“Don’t you sass me Peter Hale. I’m already out of the loop as far as everyone is concerned. I intend to keep this appearance, stay low, and generally ignore anything and everything even remotely out of the ordinary.”

“Well, if you’re sure you can pull this off..”

“I am.”

“May I have your phone for a moment?” She gives it reluctantly and stares while he enters his brand new number into her contacts list, then calls it and saves her number into his own device.

“Shouldn’t you be fumbling? I don’t think they had touch screens during the Bronze Age.”

“Your sense of humor floors me; No, they didn’t, but I’m a fast learner. The purpose of this is for me to be able to contact you if anything.. out of the ordinary.. happens that I think you need to know to keep yourself safe.”

“This is oddly protective behavior. I’m starting to get suspicious.” She said it jokingly, but Peter could see that she’s honestly confused and weary. He couldn’t blame her.

“I have personal interest in keeping you healthy and happy and nightmare-free. Werewolves need sleep, too.”, She’s easing up, but-

“I made that Molotov cocktail.”

“I possessed you.”

Silence.

“You did.” Lydia sighs, flips her hair out of her face and starts to gather her purse and her phone; click-clack delicate nail sounds on the plastic table. “If I hurry back, I might just make it to chemistry. Keep radio silence, Peter. I’ll see you around.” And she walks away, leaving behind the full price of the meal.

Only when he finishes his breakfast Peter remembers that he has no idea where he is, and no means but his own feet to get out of here. He smiles over her little vengeance.

 

That night they burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Peter comes off as OOC in this, but I'd like to point out that he just had a whole week of his greatest nightmares, and he just came back from the dead and got his faculties back; he's off-kilter and drained. I'm not saying he's a good person, I'm just not saying he's _just_ bad, because this isn't how this works.


	2. where preparation pays off

_“Working with the devil gets the job done.”_

* * *

 

 

Derek can’t remember a time when he felt so content and safe and at-ease. The pack is having a picnic, and he is sprawled on his back on the itchy grass because he’s too lazywarm to move to the blanket a few inches from him.  
  
The day is just too good to think about his past failures, his future ones, his losses. He digs his claws into the ground and drags them through the earth, adding a new smell to the ones surrounding him.  
  
The part of him that is in torment and on guard keeps track of his surroundings. He hears laughter, clear and wild and honestly too loud, and he smells faint sweat from running and roasting around under the sun, and he hears “No” and “Nothing” in tense, hushed voiced. He decides to ignore the latter.  
  
Derek isn’t an idiot, he notices things. For instance the fact that his uncle and a certain Banshee teenager have become pretty close, and he would have been worried, except he doesn’t get that vibe from either of them. So he lets them be, and doesn’t comment on them always keeping each other in sight, or standing too close, or communicating silently like a couple of weirdos, or that thing they do when they enter the same space for the first time- that thing where they nod to one another after a brief period of tenseness.   
  
There is enough shit to worry about, and if Lydia wants to play BFFs with a homicidal maniac then it’s honestly her problem.

 

Derek turns his head lazily to scratch his nose on his shoulder. He could hear Stiles and Isaac arguing, probably over who gets to hug Scott this time or something equally ridiculous, and he is absolutely incredibly not interested in a pair of spoilsports who don’t seem to want to enjoy the good weather and company. Their fucking loss, frankly.

 

He closes his eyes and starts daydreaming about sweet, sweet lemonade and red velvet cupcakes.

 

-

 

“No.” Lydia’s voice is tense and on guard.  
  
“Nothing.” Peter still projects an air of nonchalance, but she can tell he’s worried as much as she is. Without turning to him she says, “That’s a first. I don’t think we have plans for this.”  
  
“We’ll just have to improvise.”  
  
“Pain doesn’t work.”- They know that, otherwise they’d never have been in this mess in the first place. But then what can they do?  
  
“We can try to hold our breath until our bodies wake up.” She suggests this even though the thought of it makes her heart beat faster with fear.  
  
“Ladies first.”  
  
“You’re hilarious.” - She rolls her eyes, “Now!”

 

-

 

They wake up in the loft, gasping. Lydia pulls herself into a sitting position, feeling too drained to stand, lightheaded even. Looking around she sees the others sprawled on random surfaces, blissful smiles on their faces. It makes Lydia want to vomit a little bit. She turns her head towards the spiral staircase and in the corner of her eye there is a slight shimmering, almost like a movement of the air, too fast to see.  
  
“Peter?” - She asks tersely.  
  
“I smell something. And hear heartbeats, but they’re too fast, almost like it’s a little hummingbird.” - His body is locked in place where he stood up earlier, holding on to the back of the couch.  
  
So she was the only one who could see it, which could be a problem.  
  
“Can it hear us?” Lydia whispers.  
  
“I don’t know. I can’t see it. But we’re not being attacked so I assume ‘no’”. His lips curl a bit in his usual display of derision. She wants to fucking punch him.  
  
“That seems a bit silly.”  
  
“To be fair, a lot of creatures are eerily focused when they’re feasting. Almost like they’re teenage boys.” He smirks, but doesn’t dare to move.  
  
“Ugh. Listen, it’s not moving. To the left of me and a little in front.”  
  
“Can’t you do a Daphne and cover it with a blush powder or something to make it visible?”  
  
Lydia sighs. She wishes she could, but she recently switched to all-gel products and there’s nothing powdery in her purse, not right now. _Do a Daphne. Ha!_  
  
She moves her arm, but the buzzing she can faintly see doesn’t seem to be moving or reacting in any way. This thing is useless, and she’s getting pissed,  
  
“We’re idiots,” She practically growls, grabbing the nearest book and throwing it at the creature. Surprisingly, she doesn’t miss.  
  
“You didn’t miss.” The werewolf unfreezes and moves closer to the creature that starts becoming visible again. It looks something like a cross between a locust and those Pixies from the Harry Potter movie- but a sickly, light green color.  
  
“No need to sound so surprised.” She huffs, “I guess we found that new deadly ‘drug’ Stiles’ dad was talking about. Go us.”  
  
“This is the lamest creature I’ve ever seen, how did it manage to do this to so many people?” Peter looks affronted and a little embarrassed, ”Let’s not mention this to anyone ever, o.k?”  
  
Lydia lets out a laugh, “Yeah, I’m with you here. But what now?”  
  
“I was thinking-” The man starts with that smirk of his that meant nothing good for anyone, probably ever. Naturally Lydia interrupts,  
  
“Don’t kill it.”  
  
“But mommy-”  
  
“Hale, I swear to god.”  
  
“Come on, look at the little fucker. It’s killing people, doesn’t that bother you?”  
  
“I know for a fact it doesn’t bother you, so stop trying to manipulate me.”  
  
“Can your Majesty please enlighten me as to why I should not end the life of this foul creature?”  
  
“You’re a foul creature.”  
  
“That’s very mature, Martin.”  
  
“We could study it.”  
  
“Oh, hey, did your parents build you an underground lab I’m not aware of?”  
  
“No, but. I mean, doesn’t it seem odd? Can’t we offer it an alternative path? It could feed off terminally ill people; I mean, dying with a smile on your face, inside a wonderful dream, what could be better?” She realizes she sounds a bit like Scott, like a bleeding-heart, but it seems so sad to her that this creature could form a symbiotic relationship with people, but it doesn’t. When she dies she hopes one of its kin comes for her.  
  
She can hear Peter taking a deep breath as he steps a bit closer to her, lifts his hand and brushes her hair in a light caress, “Listen to yourself, Lydia.”  
  
“Mercy is what sets us apart from creatures like this one.” She says in a weak voice, not entirely sure she believes it herself, not anymore.  
  
“Mercy is a privilege you no longer have.” Peter’s hand keeps brushing her hair, lingering a bit as a full-palm touch behind her ear. She feels rattled. It’s incredibly nice of him, she thinks, to not even hint at what she did up to this point to keep herself safe, and what it means for her moral code. Incredibly nice, she thinks, and incredibly painful, because Peter doesn’t usually pull punches, he doesn’t keep quiet when he can deliver the blow. Except, maybe, when it comes to her.  
  
“Go home, Lyds. I’ll take care of it.”  
  
“No, I’ll. No.” She takes a deep breath against Peter’s warm hand and decides to Get the Fuck Over It.

 

-

 

Derek wakes up in the loft to an aching neck, a brief feeling of contentment and the sight of his pack asleep around him for no discernible reason, while in one of the couches the Banshee girl lies with her head in his uncle’s lap as he pets her hair. Her face is somber and her knuckles white and gripping Peter’s knee.  
  
Derek stretches, takes his car keys and drives to the nearest bakery. He’s having the weirdest craving for cupcakes.

 

-

  
That night they hold their breaths until all hope is burned out of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who has anxiety writing? i do i do


	3. a glimpse into the lives of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was going to have more scenes but the truth is i will never be bothered to finish watching this show. it's a bit lazy, but there you go.

_ “Just look at us.” _

* * *

 

 

 

Peter is not surprised to be the last to hear about Jackson. Lydia isn’t the type to come running, she’s more the silent Martyr. But he does- hear about it, that is.

 

“I could kill him for you.”

 

“I don’t want him dead.”

 

“Fine, I could kill him for  _ me _ .”

 

“Could you, though?”

 

“That hurt, Martin.”

 

“You’ll get over it.”

 

-

 

“You have a daughter.”

 

“ _ You _ have a granddaughter.”

 

“What.”

 

“You did help bring me to life, Lyds.”

 

“This is the most disturbing thing I’ve heard all week.”

 

“I can absolutely fix that. Imagine this: She’s the result of sex that I’ve had.”

 

“You’re a gross old man, Hale.”

 

“And this is why I’m going to do absolutely nothing about our new acquaintance.”

 

“She needs help.”

 

“Good thing i’m surrounded by a pack of White Knights, then.”

 

“You could train her in control.”

 

“Our esteemed Alpha is probably already on it.”

 

“You’re a born wolf, though, you have an advantage.”

 

“So does Derek.”

 

“Derek is kind of terrible.”

 

“So am I.”

 

“Asshole.”

 

“My point precisely.”

 

Lydia sighs.

 

“Listen..”

 

Peter cuts her off with an angry huff, all playfulness gone from his face, “No, you listen. She was perfectly happy in her animal form. She has no one and  _ nothing  _ but guilt. You want to help? Find a way to get that coyote skin back on her bones and let her  _ go _ .”

 

She doesn’t push him again, after this.

  
  
  


-

 

“Is Malia wearing your clothes?”

 

“Yes. And some of Allison’s that Mr. Argent left me.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

-

 

Peter is lying on his back, soft cotton sheets pooled around his legs, night air shivering on his skin. He’s listening to Lydia take out her jingling bundle of keys, pick the one to his apartment, open the door confidently and step inside.

 

His breathing is even but his head feels heavy with sleep and resonating dread. Lydia walks into the bedroom and sits right next to him, mattress dipping silently.  With a sigh she puts her ear to his sternum and breathes. The steady beating of her heart calms him, and he tries his best to adjust his own to hers. In out in out. Lydia’s left hand is drumming lightly on his ribs; she keeps her eyes closed as she speaks, “So that was new.”

 

“Yes.” - He almost whispers.

 

“And terrifying.” - She gives a stronger tap to his side.

 

“I suppose.” - A slight shrug of his shoulders stretches the skin under her cheek. It’s uncomfortable and comforting and grounding.

 

Fifteen minutes ago they were being devoured by Kate. She was huge and distorted, saliva dripping from her elongated teeth, eyes gleaming with malice. Their bones snapped and were slowly ground to powder, mixing with their flesh and sticking in between her gums. This was the first deviation from their usual set of dreams since the whole fiasco started. Suffice it to say they were both pretty rattled. 

 

Peter placed a hand gently on the girl’s side.

 

“You’re not going to work with her.” - That wasn’t a question.

 

“I’m not?”

 

“She killed your family.”

 

“Yes, and she died for it.”

 

It occurs to him that her presence on his chest may have been for more than just closeness; it’s her own way of listening to his heart stutter and lie. She must surely feel his skin pucker and the hairs on his arms rise at the mention of Kate’s name.

 

“She gives you literal nightmares.”

 

“As I give to you, yet here we are.” - He squeezes lightly at the skin in his palm, the furnace under her haphazardly thrown on clothes. Her body temperature isn’t actually even close to his, but things feel different in the night; more vivid, more intimate.

 

She pinches delicate skin between her fingernails and rises, huffing, balancing on her left palm. “Why do you feel this need to defend her? Like it can ever make you look at her without wanting to tear out her throat. Are you this desperate? What do you  _ need _ ?”

 

He feels a bit lightheaded with the force of the accusation, “Power.”

 

“What the ever-loving fuck for?” - She looks so exasperated; pleading with her big eyes, fist clenched in his sheets like she’s preparing to attack him.

 

“I am weak right now, you know this. I’ve been weak since..”

 

“Birth?”

 

“Haha. Very funny. Yes, of course. I mean - even before.. everything.. I wanted to be Alpha. I didn’t agree with my sister’s way of running things, and I didn’t agree with what she was teaching her daughter. Now, after death, I still.. but mostly I..  _ need it _ .”

 

“So you’re afraid.”

 

“Very much so.”

 

Lydia puts her head back on his chest and he twists, curls a little into the presence of her body. Her left shoulder is digging into his kidney and her neck must be aching at this angle, but it’s fine, it’s fine. She takes his hand between her own, whispers into it with hot breath, like it’s a secret-

 

“Stay away from Kate, Peter. I will find you an Alpha. I will drug them and drag them here in my trunk and I will put them on your doorstep and I’ll hold them down while you kill them, if I have to. I’ll give you power. Stay away from Kate.”

  
  


A month later she does. They go back to burning at night and it almost feels like a relief.

 

-

 

He knows her by now. Knows her moods and the behaviours that accompany them. She is restless, then apathetic, then restless again.

 

It’s 2 am and Peter is waiting under the Martin home, patiently leaning against his car and playing some puzzle app on a smartphone. He can smell the sex easily enough, so he tunes out the mild grunting of the oblivious werewolf and distracts himself with trying to guess how much longer this.. activity.. will last.

 

It’s incredibly amusing to him that this ex-alpha of a boy didn’t so much as smell him; and he’s so close, too. Amusing and worrying. What if he’d come there to hurt the girl?

 

He texts her to come down and spends a while reading their conversation log, a fond smile on his lips. She’s sharp and cutting and entirely too precious- sometimes he finds the need to remind himself of all the reasons he likes her so much, and there’s a feeling in the stiffness of his muscles that he’s going to need it again for the conversation that’s to follow.

 

She comes down wearing her short nightgown and a face that says  _ it better be good _ ,  _ or else _ .

 

“How long have you been here?”

 

“Oh I was just in time for the big finish.”

 

“That’s disgusting.”

 

“You’re the one that’s been doing it.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“We need to have a talk.”

 

“Right now?”

 

“I don’t see why not.”

 

“Well!”

 

Peter takes a deep breath but somehow his carefully prepared speech dissolves in his mind and what comes out is plaintive and heartfelt and a bit embarrassing, “You don’t even like him. I know it. The only reason the rest don’t is they’re either uninterested or utterly fail at being werewolves. Two guesses as to which is your boy.”

 

“It’s none of your business, Peter.”

 

“It is, it really, really is. I care about you, Lids. This is.. not good for you.”

 

“Yeah? Well what the fuck is these days, huh? Is there anything at all in this godawful town that hasn’t gone to shit? Who the fuck are you to judge me for wanting to have a little bit of closeness and affection?”

 

Peter rakes a hand through his hair, “I’m not. I am, but not for,” deep breath, “Sorry. You’re right. You know what you’re doing.”

 

Her face steadies into a rueful smile, “I don’t usually. And maybe not on this subject, but I’m fine for now, we’re fine. It’s not a mistake yet and I want to enjoy it. I just want to enjoy something.” She huffs, almost a laugh, “We can cuddle when it falls apart, I promise.”

 

“If.” he says, apologetic.

 

“When.”

-

 

“That girl is a banshee.” - Lydia’s voice is fed up and bitter and just this side of sassy, ”They’re more dangerous than you’d think.”

 

Peter thinks he should feel remorse or pity, but something inside him purrs with pride and whispers  _ ‘I know’ _ .

 

-

  
He wonders what’s the appropriate time to reveal that he had rented a place very close to her future college. Maybe he’ll give her the new key for graduation. It’s presumptuous, he knows, but he’d rather be a few blocks away in case she wants to come visit as she does now. He really, pathetically hopes she will.


End file.
